


that which they defend

by PotofCoffee



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Trauma, soft domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 18:19:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17146703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotofCoffee/pseuds/PotofCoffee
Summary: “War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.”Carwood stumbles, sees an old friend, learns how to heal.





	that which they defend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [terpsichorean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/terpsichorean/gifts).



> even though I accidentally totally procrastinated this, it was so much fun!! Especially bc I got out of my comfort zone and wrote Lip/Speirs. Getting one of my best friends in the whole world made it even more fun tbh cause I have spent so much of my life talking to her about band of brothers that I should know what she likes at this point. Carlson, I hope I did your boys justice and I really hope you like this fic!  
> It’s nominally a Christmas fic in honour of the exchange, but not really very Christmas-y at all. 😘  
> I do no research and I have completely removed Lip the character from Lip the person so mistakes/inaccuracies are all on me. 💁🏻

The snow is cold, bright white under Carwood’s hands as he crawls out of his foxhole. He needs to check the perimeter, check on his men.

“Stay down!” he yells. “Stay down!” Repeated again and again, even if they all already know that crawling out from the safety of their cover is the most dangerous thing they can do. Carwood, well, Carwood knows that it’s dangerous just as much as anyone else does but he won’t let that stop him. Somewhere out there in the haze of destruction someone could need help, and he needs to be there. He looks ahead as he runs, and there, just off to the side, he can see two soldiers—too far away to make out who it is—close enough that he can see the dark red blood dousing the snow. He runs towards them, hearing the shattered call of _medic_ , _medic_ , an endless desperate repetition. He needs to get to them, needs to do what he can until the doc gets there. He needs to be there, as their sergeant, to tell whomever it is that it’s going to be okay and then do everything in his power to make it that way.

They’ve lost too many men already in this godforsaken forest, he’ll do anything he can to keep the rest of them alive. His chest burns as he gulps in ice cold air, his thighs ache from too long spent crouched in a foxhole, from how hard he’s running now.

And he can’t get there, he can’t get to them. Carwood’s running as fast as he possibly can, putting every ounce of energy and will into moving forward but the bloody scene ahead of him never gets closer. He still can’t see who it is, still can’t do anything but run towards them, listening to their calls for help, cries of pain that he isn’t doing anything to abate.

Carwood sits up in his bed, gasping for breath, his sheets plastered to his sweat-covered legs. It takes a moment for the dark, familiar room to seep through his panic, to remind him where he is. He’s home, he’s in his own bed, in his own little flat in Huntington, just across the street from Ma’s boarding house. It’s been two years since Bastogne and the Bois Jacques, long enough that he shouldn’t be thinking of it anymore. Or, at least, long enough that he shouldn’t have a dream like this anymore. He stands, a little unsteady on his feet, and thinks how grateful he is that he decided to keep his place, to move back here after the war instead of moving into the boarding house

He walks into the bathroom to fill the cup of water he keeps at his bedside and tries not to notice the way his teeth chatter briefly against the mug. He concentrates on deep breaths to slow his breathing, watches himself in the mirror seeing the dark circles under his eyes, the pallid skin. Peggy would’ve had something to say about that, for sure. He’s never been able to keep a thing from her, but she’s not here, hasn’t been for months. Carwood isn’t sure if he got tired of her worrying or if she just got tired of worrying, but weeks upon weeks of silence and concerned looks built up. He tried to be a good husband, to be a good friend, he doesn’t know where in Europe he lost the ability to do that. Where he lost the part of him that made him a normal person, a good person. Maybe it flew out of him the second his parachute caught in the air, maybe floating down to France amidst sprays of artillery fire pulled him out of home in way that made it impossible to ever truly come back.

He and Peggy aren’t divorced, not really, but their marriage had never been more than a formality, an agreement between two good friends who knew they couldn’t give a spouse what they were supposed to and so stayed with each other. It was supposed to make their lives easier, Carwood’s quite convinced he made Peggy’s harder and he hates himself for that. She’s visiting a friend in Seattle, now, has been for months and at least she seems happy in the couple letters he’s gotten. Happier without him, no surprise there.

He feels better now, well, not better, quite, but steadier. He looks at the clock, it’s just past four o'clock so it’s not really worth going back to bed. He gets dressed instead, heads over to the boarding house and starts by stoking the coals in the fireplace in the main room. He leans close and blows on the few glowing embers, gets enough of a flame and adds a couple of pieces of wood before heading back outside to cut more. It’s chilly enough to want a jacket but not cold—nothing has seemed truly cold since Bastogne—and soon he’s worked up a healthy sweat, has almost banished the memory of the dream from his brain by the time he’s bringing the wood inside. Leland is up by then, his brother as used to rising early as he is. He nods to Carwood, has never been much for talking first thing in the morning, and they set to work getting things ready for breakfast. While Leland slices bread and cracks eggs, Carwood lights the stove and sets up the percolator so coffee will be ready for even the earliest risers. They move around each other with a practiced ease, the routine a natural part of life for as long as Carwood can remember. This, at least, is simple. This he can do no matter what the war took from him.

Ma comes downstairs not long after, greets both her boys with a smile and a kiss before she starts cooking breakfast. It’s a flurry of activity next, a steady go-go-go to get ready to feed all the people staying with them. They’re full up right now, a good thing for their budget, but it makes them all the busier. When everyone’s been fed Ma goes around topping up coffees and chatting with the guests. She knows all their names, Carwood’s sure, knows their spouses names and their kids names too, if they have them. She has an easy way with people that Carwood’s always aspired to, makes people comfortable just by talking to them.

With the kitchen cleaned, Carwood’s ready to start work on any of the hundred things that need to get taken care of today, like laundry and cleaning the rooms but Ma stops him before he gets very far.

“Carwood, dear, can you finish decorating for Christmas please?” It’s well into December and it’s not a ridiculous request, just yesterday he and Leland had dragged a tree inside and set it up on a stand, but Carwood wishes desperately to be given any other task. He’s about to suggest that Leland should do it, because he’s younger and tree decorating is certainly far easier than lugging around baskets of heavy wet linens, but Leland grew up so much while Carwood was away, is at least as competent as Carwood now, and Carwood doesn’t have any right to say no, to tell any of them what to do.

So he forces a smile and says, “Of course, Ma,” and tries to make the best of it. It’s not just the queer feeling he’s had ever since he woke up from that awful dream, Carwood hates Christmas and he wants as little to do with the holiday as possible.

He used to love it, when he was a kid, remembers the mounting joy and excitement of December, with the beautiful lights and decorations, the greenery everywhere. Even in Bastogne he tried to make the best of the holiday, tried to give what little joy and support he could to the men. And last year he’d only been home for a couple of months when Christmas came around, was swept up in the bustle and excitement of the end of the war. Coming home, living with the weight of memories, the pain, hadn’t hit yet. Last year was easy. But now, now Christmas lays across him like a heavy blanket, weighing him down at every moment.

Judy croons _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_ from the record player in the corner as Carwood opens the boxes of decorations and sets to work. The somber, yearning chords tug at his heartstrings, the song somehow sad and happy all at once. How is he supposed to have a merry Christmas, he wants to know. How is he supposed to celebrate a holiday about friends and family when so many of his men—his friends—will never see another Christmas? There are families without sons this year because Carwood couldn’t save them, and yet he’s here and he’s fine and he doesn’t think that’s fair at all. Everyone else’s joy swirling around him only drags him deeper down, brings back the memories of terror and confusion, the feeling of hot blood spurting over his cold hands—the only thing truly warm in those frigid French forests.

He reaches back into the box and pulls out a little silver star, intricately shaped, carefully wrapped in paper to keep it safe throughout the year and he can’t help but smile wanly. Ron had sent this to him, last Christmas, with a sweet little note that Carwood still has on his desk. Ma and Peggy had both been curious about Ron, had asked Carwood who he was and all Carwood had been able to say was that he was a friend from the war, couldn’t think of a single story that didn’t make Ron seem crazy or dangerous and he’s not either of those things. He’s… sweet, really, sweeter than Carwood had ever expected a man like Ron to be.

He runs his fingers over the star and thinks about where Ron might be right now, maybe at home with his family, if he has one, maybe with his unit. His mind drifts to Ron’s latest letter; he got it last week, hasn’t replied to it yet but he’s read it three or four times already and every time reinforced his feeling that something was off. Ron’s never been the best communicator, though he’s better in writing than in speech. Still, even his letters have that halting uneven tempo that Carwood learned to find so comforting, and he’s used to that. But this last one, well, Ron had mentioned something about going on leave and he had seemed less energetic than usual and Carwood worries about it constantly.

His heart aches at that; he doesn’t have the right to worry about Ron, he’s just an old war buddy to him, nothing more. He knows that his feelings are unseemly, absurd, certainly not returned in any way. And Ron could have any woman he wants, with those dark intense eyes and beautiful soft hair. Still, he can’t stop his feelings. He sighs, puts the star on the tree and keeps working.

Christmas passes in a blur of lights and festivities, with a big turkey dinner at the boarding house shared with the guests staying over the holiday. Carwood does his best to smile through it, to act as happy as he can. The last thing in the world he wants is Ma or Leland worrying about him. He’s the one who should be taking care of them, not the other way around. So he puts on a brave face and sings along to the carols, goes to church on Christmas Eve, gives thoughtful little gifts to Ma and Leland, only lets himself sink into misery when he’s home alone.

He’s never been a drinker, and smoking never held much charm after pneumonia, he doesn’t have a vice to lean on, so at the end of the day he goes home and he sits in the dark and he tries to will himself not to think. He begs off New Years celebrations, sits alone at home instead and finally sets to writing Ron back. He starts by asking about his furlough, wants to suggest that they visit each other but he doesn’t know if he should, doesn’t want to be too forward, so he leaves it as is and talks about other things instead. His pen slows, he puts it down and stares down at the page, at the date at the top, December 31st 1946. It’s almost 1947, one more year come and gone, one more marker of how far they’ve come from the war even though he still feels amidst it.

He wonders how long it will be before he actually feels like he’s home.

Carwood aims for cheerfulness in his letter, stays away from all the pensive musings he feels drawn to tonight, and eventually has to give up on writing. Tomorrow he will be more himself, more able to avoid the darkness that clouds his mind right now. For the time being, he leans back in his chair and thinks of Ron.

He would really love to see him, both to make sure he’s okay and for other, more selfish reasons. It wasn’t all that surprising for Carwood to find himself attracted to Ron. Certainly not after he got to know Ron as something more than the legends that surrounded him. Being attracted to a man wasn’t all that odd for him, either, he’d known how he was since he was 16 and every other boy in his class had been hell bent on getting Elly Jenkins to notice them. All Carwood had cared about was spending as much time as possible with Jeremiah Sanderson, had barely even noticed Elly but to hear the other boys talking about her. He hadn’t been able to even think of anyone other than Jeremiah, with his tousled hair and easy smile and even though Carwood couldn’t name his feelings then he knew them, knew himself to be something other even then.

Jeremiah got hit on D-Day and never made it off the beach.

“He died a hero,” Mrs. Sanderson had told Carwood one day, standing just outside the butcher’s shop. Sad but proud, earnestly so. Carwood had nodded and told her how sorry he was for her loss, all the time thinking of all the men he’d seen die as heroes, choking out last breaths devoid of any dignity, any peace at all.

Carwood stays up until midnight, to see the old year end, mostly because he knows he wouldn’t be sleeping anyway. The dream’s still dogging him every night, the same thing, almost tired by now it’s so familiar to him. The cold and the snow and the men who need him just out of his reach. He feels more powerless than he ever did during the war; at least then he could get to them, see them, hold them, talk to them, even if that was all he could do. It wasn’t much, not really, but it was something.

He crawls into bed just past midnight and closes his eyes. Sleep is elusive as always, it’s hard to fall asleep when he knows that the dream waits for him and he thinks of Ron instead. Thinks of the way Ron had looked at him in that church that night, the stench of unwashed men heavy in the air. Carwood has never understood, really, why anyone felt the need to praise him, why Ron had looked at him there like he was something real special. The truth is, Carwood was always just doing his job; doing his best to be there for the men as he could. But make no mistake, it was them who were doing the real work. It was them fighting the real fight and all Carwood did was try to do his part, try to keep them a little safer, a little warmer, a little happier than they’d otherwise have been. He was no hero, they were.

He falls asleep eventually, gets a couple restful hours before the dream and then he’s waking up, panting and sweaty. He’s almost used to it by now, the feeling of being there and then coming back to the now, the reality of his dark little room and nobody who needs him.

He gets up, finishes his letter to Ron and then heads to the boarding house. Thankfully there’s always some work to be done, no matter how early it is and he throws himself into that to keep his mind off of everything else.

In mid-January, a letter comes to the boarding house from Ron. Again, he can’t put his finger on anything in particular, can’t name what he finds so disquieting, but it’s there. It’s there and it’s making him worried about Ron and that makes his heart hurt in ways he can’t really define. They’re not together now, he can’t be looking over his shoulder making sure that he’s eating enough, that he knows the names of the people he needs to know the names of. Carwood isn’t there to check in with him and that worries him, worries him deeply.

He folds up the letter, puts it with all the others from Ron, he keeps them in a decorative little box on his desk, and goes to bed. He wishes he could see Ron, just see him, even for five minutes to make sure that he’s okay.

A couple days later Ma’s talking to him as they’re working in the kitchen, catching him up on all the gossip from the town. “Well you know the oldest Jones girl, oh wait not the oldest, she’s married now, but the second oldest, um, Veronica, she got a teaching job up in Boston. Much better paying than what she had here, from what Mrs. Hawkins says, and much better marriage prospects too, though no one’s exactly saying that we’re all thinking it. Well you know the Jones’, and Mr. Jones is always busy at the factory, and their sons, well Christopher and Ronald are the only ones left now, and they don’t have time to chaperone her up there either and Mrs. Jones is so worried about Veronica. Once she’s up there, fine, she’s got a nice family to stay with, Mrs. Jones’ sister’s husband’s brother or something like that, but they don’t know how to get her up there safely, with no one having the time to go with her and it would certainly be improper for a young lady like that to go on such a long journey all alone.”

“I could take her.” the words are out of his mouth before he’s actually thought through what he’s saying.

“What?” Ma had been rambling, wasn’t expecting to be interrupted because she never is when she talks like this.

“I could go with her,” Carwood says, his mind made up in an instant. He can go to Boston with Veronica, contact Ron and just see him. Carwood doesn’t need anything more than that, doesn’t think Ron would even want to spend time with him necessarily, or would have the time, doesn’t even know if Ron would be glad to see him but it would put his mind at ease to know he’s okay. “If you and Leland could spare me that is,” he adds quickly.

“Oh Carwood that’s so sweet of you, I’m sure the Jones’ would be glad for the offer.” She passes him a clean platter to dry and put away. “And maybe you could see that young man who’s always writing you, Ron is it? The one who sent us that beautiful ornament and those candle holders we have out on the mantle, he’s from Boston, isn’t he?”

It’s pure instinct that keeps Carwood from dropping the platter on the ground in surprise. He hadn’t realized Ma was paying such close attention to his letters or his friends.

“Right,” he says like it’s the first time he thought of it. “Yes, of course, I’ll have to see if he’s around.”

Veronica is starting work at the beginning of March, Carwood soon learns over dinner at the Jones’, so they don’t wait long before leaving for Boston. There’s no time to get a letter to Ron, to warn him he’s coming. At the same dinner, Carwood gets enough effusive praise to feel absolutely and entirely guilty. Here Mr. and Mrs. Jones are, thinking he’s some kind of saint when really he’s just using them, using their daughter for his own aims. He doesn’t let them pay for his ticket, as much as they try, and that assuages his guilt in part. The rest he lives with, he’s used to living with guilt these days, used to not being nearly as good a man as everyone thinks he is.

The trip to Boston is nice, easy. Veronica’s a lovely girl and his being a married man—despite the fact that Peggy hasn’t been around for months—means that they’re both protected, safe to travel together. They chat for a bit, about Boston and about Veronica’s hopes and dreams with her new job there, and then they fall silent and Carwood spends his time watching the land pass them by, listening to the rhythm of the train as they move, lets his mind drift and think about time and place and all the other trips he’s been on, each marked by death and loss and excitement and relief.

When they get to Boston, the first thing Carwood does is sees Veronica safely to the family she’ll be staying with. He declines their offer to stay with them, begs off staying for supper by claiming exhaustion and he is tired, yes, but he’s also brimming with energy and anticipation. He hasn’t stopped thinking about Ron since he got into  Boston, hasn’t been able to concentrate on anything but the fact that he might get to see Ron soon and he knows he wouldn’t be able to eat a thing even if he did stay to sup with them.

Instead, he says his goodbyes to Veronica, takes his bag, and walks to a nearby hotel. Once he’s there, with his things taken up to his room, he inquires at the front desk about sending a note to someone in town. It’s not one of the nicest hotels, Carwood can’t possibly rationalize the cost of something that luxurious, but it’s a step up from a boarding house and it’s nice enough to have a concierge standing by to politely answer his questions.

“How can I get a note to someone in town?”

“Sir, we have runners standing by, of course, boys who would be more than happy to deliver a note for you. Do you know the address?”

He does, has it memorized at this point, and he scrawls it on the envelope of a hasty note, given to the boy the concierge calls up before he can second guess himself. The note itself is simple, says ‘Ron, I’m in town and would love to see you, Carwood’ and the address of the hotel. He had wanted to write more, to explain why he’s here or to try to seem more blasé, to be cool and casual, but he’d given up on that quickly enough. The less words, the less desperate he seems, he hopes. The lad heads off with the note and Carwood goes back to his room to pace and fidget and wonder where Ron is, what he’s doing, if he’ll have the time—or the desire—to see Carwood.

His anxious musings are finally interrupted by a knock on the door. He opens it expecting to see the boy he’d sent with the message, or the concierge perhaps; instead, it’s Ron. In the flesh, right in front of him. He looks, well, he doesn’t look good. He looks sort of gaunt, too skinny for sure, unkempt in a deep way, unsettled and unsettling. He’s scruffier than Carwood’s ever seen him, unshaven face not quite at the point of a beard but getting close, hair long and messy. Carwood’s hands itch with the urge to touch him, to stroke the stubble on his face, run his hands through his hair. He resists, as he always has, because that would be dangerous, would be the worst possible thing he could do. Carwood knows he needs to be careful; he’d much rather have Ron as a friend than not at all.

“Hi,” Ron says, the word made long, slow, gentle.

“Hi, hi, come in,” Carwood stumbles over the words and steps back so Ron can enter.

Ron steps close enough that Carwood can feel him in front of him and _oh_ , this is real. Ron is real. And he’s really here, close enough to touch and should Carwood touch him? Shake his hand? Hug?

He moves closer and so does Ron and they hug, awkwardly, so very awkwardly, but it’s still a hug and feeling Ron warm and solid against him makes his breath hitch. They’re well-matched in height, close enough that Carwood wouldn’t have to turn his head far to kiss Ron, wouldn’t have to turn much at all. And it must be the distance, the long absence that’s making these thoughts run through his brain so heedlessly. He forces control, and steps back.

“How long will you be in town?” Ron asks.

“I’m leaving tomorrow, I was only here to see a young woman, um, family friend, to Boston safely.”

Ron almost looks sad at that, crestfallen, even, and Carwood can’t really believe that, can’t get his mind to accept that Ron would be disappointed he’s leaving so soon when he didn’t even know he was coming.

“Why don’t you come back with me?” The suggestion is sudden, impulsive. What is it with him and blurting things out these days? But he’s said it and he’s going to stand by it and so he looks up, meets Ron’s startled eyes and wonders if he’s been too eager, if Ron will know how lonely he is, or, worse, how he feels about him. But it’s a good idea, because seeing Ron hasn’t assuaged his fears for him, if anything seeing Ron has only made him more worried, and he needs to try to help him. So he tries to make it seem natural, decides to convince Ron one moment and the next he’s speaking, words tumbling in an unending river to try to make this seem logical, somehow, more than an instinct based on Carwood’s deepest desires. “I mean, you’re on leave, aren’t you? You could come, see Huntington—”

“Yes,” Ron interrupts him before he can blather on further.

“What?”

“I would love to come visit Huntington.”

“Oh. Great!” Carwood can’t quite believe it, that Ron would want to come to Huntington with him but he can’t keep himself from grinning at Ron either.

Ron smiles back, ducks his head. “Supper? I mean, I came to ask if you wanted to come for supper. If you want.” His tone is almost, what, uncertain? Like Carwood wouldn’t want to go wherever he suggests.

“Yes, of course,” he looks down at himself, “if… I mean, do I need to change? I don’t want to be under-dressed.” He rubs the back of his neck, looks down at his beige slacks, glad that they still look fairly neat even after a day of travelling.

“You look great,” Ron says softly and Carwood’s grateful he’s being so nice, even if he’s far from his Sunday best.

They’re going, Carwood soon learns, to Ron’s parents’ house. He’s shocked at that, Ron had never mentioned his parents before and Carwood had honestly thought they were dead. Not that he talked about Ma and Leland often, during the war—few of the men did more than mention their families in passing, it was too painful—but he had at least told of them, people knew they existed.

Ron, however, any time anyone mentioned family he just did that stare, that long silent stare that seemed dangerous, until you got to know him and realized it was just how he looked when he didn’t feel a question was worth answering. So to hear that he has a family, a family he’s close enough to to have dinner with like this, well, all Carwood can do is wonder what in the world they’ll be like.

He follows Ron out of the hotel and into a waiting taxi which careens down a number of winding streets and deposits them right outside of a large beautiful brick brownstone. Inside, Carwood meets Mr. and Mrs. Speirs, “it’s very nice to meet you, ma’am, sir,” and Ron’s sister, Helen.

Helen hugs Carwood, says, “oh my goodness the famous Carwood Lipton! It’s been so long just hearing of you my money was on Ron having made you up.”

Carwood doesn’t know how to respond to that so he goes with, “it’s very nice to meet you,” repetitive but polite, safe. Helen is beautiful, has the same dark hair and dark eyes as her brother, and Carwood paid enough attention to what Peggy bought and wore to know that her outfit is devastating both in its stylishness and its cost. Mr. and Mrs. Speirs are also well dressed, though more staidly, and they share their children’s good looks. Mr. Speirs ushers them all through to the sitting room—a sitting room, Carwood learns later that there are several—where he pours them drinks and they sit and chat. It’s not what Carwood expected at all. He had figured the Speirs must be wealthy, to have been able to send Ron to a good university, but with the way Ron was he had expected them all to be, well, weird.

Instead, they’re some of the most normal, pleasant people Carwood’s ever meant. All through dinner and beyond, the evening is filled with amicable and intelligent conversation. Carwood feels out of place but welcome, everyone so warm and kind even though he can’t discuss Homer or even, really, politics with the same grace as Ron’s family does. He stays quiet, is unfailingly polite, and notices that Ron doesn’t talk much either. He puts in a word here and there, adds to the conversation when it’s needed, and especially speaks up any time the conversation can move to be about Carwood, but he seems disinclined to talk as much as his sister and parents do.

He seems happy though, he keeps smiling at Carwood, at least, and that makes Carwood happy, means that Carwood smiles just as much because he can’t not smile back when Ron looks at him like that.

At the end of the evening, Ron insists on accompanying Carwood back to the hotel, up to his room, even, smiles at him while leaning against the door jamb and says, “so… tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Carwood nods.

The train ride back to Huntington is a hundred times, a thousand times better than the ride to Boston was. Veronica was a pleasant enough girl but Ron is _Ron_ and his quiet comments on everything from the scenery to lunch make Carwood’s heart warm.

“You can stay with me,” he tells Ron as they leave the station. “I have a spare room, might be a little dusty, and it’s not anything fancy—”

“It’ll be great, Carwood, I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

Carwood points out the highlights of Huntington as they walk. The butcher shop, the greengrocer's with the best fruit, and finally, the boarding house and Carwood’s apartment across the way. He gets Ron settled and then takes him over to the boarding house so he can introduce him to Ma and Leland. He’s worried about that, worried that they’ll find Ron weird and unsettling, like so many of the men did before they got to know him—and maybe even after. Leland does think he’s odd, Carwood can tell. He wants to rush to Ron’s defence, to tell Leland how wonderful and strong and intelligent and kind he is but he’s not sure that that’ll be helpful, really, so he doesn’t. He just waits, instead, waits for Ron’s true nature to shine through, for Leland and Ma to realize that beneath the rough edges he is a good man; they do.

“He’s actually pretty okay,” Leland says after a few days and Carwood knows that is high praise indeed.

“A nice young man,” Ma says, but Carwood can feel her watching them when he and Ron are near to her and he wonders what she thinks of this, what she thinks of them.

He doesn’t expect Ron to come with him when he goes to work at the boarding house the day after they arrive, doesn’t even expect him to be awake. But he’s there in the front room and he’s there every day after and he comes along and helps out in any way he can without complaint. They get into a rhythm, the two of them, early to the boarding house and then heading back to Carwood’s apartment after they’ve helped clean up after supper. Carwood finds it’s easier to worry about Ron than to worry about himself. He still thinks about the war, all the time, still thinks of how unworthy he is to be the one who survived. But Ron, if Carwood can help Ron, can make Ron okay then at least he’s doing something good with his whole body and whole mind—rare things to still have after what they went through.

He tries not to make it obvious that he’s watching to make sure he’s eating, to see he fills out a bit, or that his daily conversation always includes making sure he’s feeling okay. He can’t do more than that, but Ron seems more himself every day, and that means something’s working.

Carwood also loves having Ron around, that after he’s done with work he gets to home to Ron, with Ron, really, but it still _feels_ like going home to him. Instead of sitting in the dark, alone with his thoughts, he sits with Ron in the front room. They talk, sometimes, not about serious things ever, just idle chatter, but Carwood likes it best when Ron reads to him. That beautiful voice, that beautiful timbre is even more noticeable when it’s not slowed by Ron’s way of speech and Carwood thinks it might be paradise, sitting there listening as Ron makes his way through _Sense & Sensibility_. It’s one of the few books he brought, and quicker to get through than the _Iliad_ , Ron says, and Carwood loves it, loves that Ron chose it to read to him, loves that someone like Ron loves to read Jane Austen. He thinks of how scary people used to think he was and wonders if they could possibly say the same of him now, weathered novel in his hands, hair all askew from where he’s been running his hands through it while reading, soft eyes just visible over the book.

He still gets the dream without fail every night, though he no longer sees white snow and blood and death every single time he closes his eyes. And with Ron in the next room, he usually at least tries to go back to sleep after he wakes up, worried that by getting up he’ll disturb him, and so he’s getting more sleep than he used to, feeling a bit better because of it, maybe even looking a little less haggard, though it’s hard to tell on that front.

They never discussed how long Ron would stay for, and Carwood refuses to bring it up in fear that Ron will take it as a hint to go. The beard is almost fully grown in, now, and Ron knows how to do pretty much every chore at the boarding house without having to ask where things are and when Carwood thinks about it that means it’s been weeks, more than a month when he looks at the calendar, and surely Ron must have to get back to Boston soon. Carwood, for one, would happily have him stay forever, but he's not greedy enough to suggest that, not cavalier enough to place himself and his worries above Ron's responsibilities. 

Carwood thought maybe spending this much time with Ron would make him numb to his feelings, or at least more resistant, like he’d maybe be able to control his own brain better, but that is not the case. If anything, his feelings have gotten stronger, that lurching feeling of love and need has only gotten more insistent. The false domesticity of having Ron in his home every night has made it clear just how much he wants him, but Carwood would rather deal with that, rather have him here with him, would give anything for Ron to stay with him forever.

“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome,” Ron says one night and Carwood startles.

“No, Ron, you’re always welcome here.”

“I… Thank you, but I’ve more than exhausted your hospitality. I—I’ve been having such a good time, but I should go.”

“Oh.” Carwood doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t know how he could possibly tell Ron how much he wants him to stay without betraying how he feels. “Is there anything you want to do before you go?” He settles on finally, a last ditch effort to get Ron to stay, at least for a while.

“I have,” he pauses, “always wanted to see the Blue Ridge mountains. Would you take me, Carwood?”

“I haven’t been either,” Carwood says. “So close, but, I guess I never had the time.” He grins suddenly, “we should go then, you and me, it could be an adventure.”

“Adventure. I would’ve thought you had had more than enough of that.”

Carwood’s smile falters for a moment, but then Ron smiles at him and Carwood’s able to feel the gentle teasing, not a rebuke after all, and he says, a little too eagerly for his liking, “so, you’ll go with me?”

“Yes, Carwood, I’ll go with you.”

It’s another week and a half before they can make all the arrangements, Ma knows a guy with a truck he doesn’t use too often and Carwood’s able to rent it from him for the journey for a couple dollars. He considers asking Ron to drive, but then he remembers how he used to run into enemy fire, fearless and reckless, and thinks the better of it. It’s a pleasant drive, beautiful, and they find a small town nestled in the base of the mountains, drive to the single motel and go inside to rent a room.

The motel is crowded, and the woman working the front desk informs them sadly that she only has one room left. One room with one bed.

They take it anyway, “better than sleeping in the truck,” Ron murmurs.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Carwood offers once they’re in the room but Ron just looks at him and shakes his head.

“Don’t be silly, there’s room for both of us.” He looks at Carwood, cocks his head to the side, “more than enough considering some of the places we’ve slept.”

Carwood can’t think of a better excuse, can’t tell Ron that sharing a bed with him would be the most exquisite agony, and so he nods and leaves it at that. He’ll survive, he always does. Even when he shouldn’t, he thinks bitterly and then he shakes off that thought, refusing to let it ruin this time here with Ron.

They go to a small diner for their supper, eat the greasy delicious food with relish, and then walk around the little town, if it can even be called a town, houses scattered amongst trees and mountains. It’s beautiful, as beautiful as Ron had said it would be and there’s nobody Carwood would rather share it with. He goes to sleep with Ron’s body right up beside him, and he’s so warm, so achingly aware of every inch of his body that’s in contact with Ron’s that he doesn’t think he’ll ever sleep. He only knows he’s fallen asleep when he’s sitting up, shocked awake by the dream that shouldn’t even be shocking anymore, his breathing ragged and his body coated in sweat. He doesn’t even remember that Ron’s beside him at first, is only aware of someone’s arms around him, holding him tight.

But then, “it’s okay Carwood,” in Ron’s ever-so-familiar voice. “You’re okay.”

He breathes through it, panic washing out any embarrassment, and falls asleep again faster than he ever has before, manages to sleep until daylight is streaming in through the windows and wonders if all he ever needed was someone to hold him through the night.

But, no, he can’t imagine that just anyone would’ve had that effect on him. It’s Ron, it’s who he is, always there when Carwood needs him, and he doesn’t know how to thank him for being there for him when he so very needed it.

Ron doesn’t mention it, though, just talks about the weather and how beautiful it is and would Carwood be interested in trying to hike up the nearby mountain today.

“I would, as long as you don’t make me run.”

“No, no running. I’m no Sobel,” that quick grin, an almost wink.

The hike is beautiful, steep and a little challenging—Carwood hadn’t realized how out of shape he’d gotten—but the scenery is more than enough to make it worth it. They had no hope of making it all the way up, but the waitress at the diner had told them of a trail that makes a nice path up and ends with a good view and they follow it as far as it goes. The view is not just good, it is breathtaking. Carwood stands on the rocky outcrop and looks out at blue sky and bright sun and mountains and trees and the river below. He can feel tears in his eyes; Carwood had thought he had seen all the beauty in the world, had seen how that beauty was far outweighed by the horrors, but here and now there’s more beauty than he’d accounted for, an untold good he cannot now quantify.

He turns to Ron and sees the same awe in his face, mixed with a sort of quizzical look, but he expects that from Ron, knows he would never see naked awe clear on his face. Ron’s always too guarded for that. They sit down on that rock, pull out the cheese and meat and crackers they’d packed, their canteens still half full of water, and eat while watching the view. Warm and happy and with such a sight in front of him, Carwood wonders if they could maybe stay like this forever.

He wants to tell Ron about the dream all of a sudden, wants to explain and also has a need to tell someone how he feels. He looks around him and hesitates, wonders if it would be a defacement to this beautiful view, this beautiful day, but maybe it’s better told out here, amidst all this wonder, with the bright sunlight to cleanse his thoughts and words just like it bleaches dirty linens.

“I can’t get to my men,” he’s quiet, but he’s sure Ron can hear him. Then he realizes he started in the middle, “in the dream I had last night, I’ve had it before. I’m back in Bastogne, or maybe the Bois Jacques, somewhere cold and deadly, and there’s men in front of me, men who have been hit, who need my help, and I can’t get to them.” He looks out and fixes his eyes on a slowly circling hawk, “how am I supposed to help them if I can’t even reach them?”

“One of our first nights in France, just outside Carentan one of your soldiers asked me for advice.”

“Blithe, yeah, you told him, what was it? Accept you’re already dead?”

“How did you—Martin not as asleep as he looked?”

“Was he ever?” Carwood grins.

“Good point. Well, I was serious, Carwood. I knew I’d never make it back from there so it didn’t matter what I did, didn’t matter if I ran towards every bullet, because I knew sooner or later I was going to die.”

“But you didn’t.” Carwood doesn’t say _thank god_ but he thinks it.

“No, I didn’t. And I don’t know why I didn’t. I’m here, in one piece, on fucking furlough and I don’t know what to do with myself. I never planned for this.” It’s such naked honesty that Carwood feels compelled to share in kind, feels suddenly like he can say anything here and it will be okay.

“I don’t understand why I made it through, why I got praised and promoted, when the real heroes died all around me and I couldn’t save them.”

“You saved a lot of them.”

“Not enough.”

Ron leans forward and grabs Carwood’s hand, suddenly, twists so he’s looking at him instead of at the view and Carwood turns towards him too. “More than anyone could’ve expected. You are the best sergeant, best lieutenant anyone could’ve asked for, and you saved all of us, one time or another.”

“I don’t... I was willing to believe that the world was just bad, or more bad than good,” Carwood says slowly, thinking through every word, “but this place is so beautiful and you’re here and I think I could almost be happy and…”

“It’s not a betrayal, to those we left behind, living your life to the fullest.”

“Isn’t it? Shouldn’t they be here? Shouldn’t it be them living their lives to the fullest?”

“You can’t think like that.”

“Well you can’t think you’re supposed to be dead.”

Ron laughs, “touché.”

“I don’t want to waste my life, though. I mean, if they died so I could be here, maybe that’s a reason to live my life to the fullest?”

“Maybe. I don’t think they died for you though, I just think, well, war is hell.”

Carwood laughs but it’s sharp, humourless. “That’s the meat of it.” He sighs, “I still can’t help feeling,” what? Unworthy?

“I can’t say you deserve to live, that would imply that they deserved to die and they didn’t. All I can say is you’re here.”

“So are you,” Carwood squeezes Ron’s hand, still held in his. He looks out at the mountains and then back at Ron, “how do we learn to live with it?”

“By trying, maybe?”

“Together?” Carwood offers.

“I like that,” Ron relaxes visibly, “jesus Carwood I’ve been worried about you.”

“You’ve been worried about me?” Carwood stares at him in shock, “I’ve been worried about you!” He can feel the tension leave his body as he says it, Ron does really seem a lot better now. And Carwood’s mostly certain it’s not just all better hidden by the beard. Ron starts to chuckle and Carwood isn’t far behind and soon enough they’re laughing so hard Carwood’s belly hurts, leaning into each other as their shoulders shake, part hilarity from both of them thinking they were slyly taking care of the other, part pure emotional release.

Their laughs die down, and they finally gather up their leftovers and garbage, placing them back into Ron’s pack.

They’ve stood and they’re getting ready to head back down the trail when Ron says, “Carwood,” touches his hand, takes a step forward and kisses him gently on the lips. This, too, is a surprise and a release in it’s own right, of all those fears and feelings and frustrations. Carwood can’t believe it’s happening, at first. He can’t believe that Ron is kissing him like this, soft and pure and decisively clear in intentions. But he is, he is kissing Carwood before bright blue skies over the Blue Ridge mountains on a perfect spring day. He is and Carwood is and they _are_ and they continue to _be_ and together they are maybe somewhat almost going to be okay.

Carwood kisses back.


End file.
